


Love Removes the Hurt in You

by shadowsandsouls



Series: Blackberry Cobbler [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Background Rans/Hoslter, Gen, M/M, background shitty/lardo - Freeform, overdose mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-03 05:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8698717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowsandsouls/pseuds/shadowsandsouls
Summary: Several years after their encounter at the hospital, Jack and Bittle are reunited at Samwell. Bittle had been young, Jack had been sick, and both of them knew each other as different names. Do they remember? This is a sequel to When You Need Me, I'll Be There





	1. Your Eyes and Your Pies

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter takes place on Bittle's first day at Samwell. Time has progressed canonically since the hospital. If you haven't read When You Need Me, I'll Be There, I highly recommend that you do so that you have the background for this story! Thank you so much for reading!

Jack had been at Samwell for two years. Two years of learning and growing and not necessarily forgetting the past, but attempting to make peace with it. Part of him knew he was not that much better than he was when he arrived, but the largest part did not care. Jack had friends, he had his sport back, he had his life. That was enough.

And then that little shit came along.

“Jack, we gotta go, brah! Wake that fucking glorious ass up,” called Shitty from the bottom of the stairs. 

The fucking glorious ass in question was still in bed despite the late hour of 9 AM. Jack very rarely slept in past 7, but for some reason the thought of facing the new frogs as their captain for the first time was too daunting, and he wanted to stay in bed as long as could. Holding onto his sophomoric dreams of what captainship would be like instead of the reality of being able to let a team down. Again. 

Chest tight, Jack sat up in his bed and tried to take a few steadying breaths. 

“A cup and a half of flour. A teaspoon of salt. Cold butter.” Jack whispered measurements under his breath as he busied himself getting dressed. Several years ago, a half-formed memory of someone had taught him how to calm his mind by making imaginary blackberry cobbler. “Jeans. Samwell Hockey shirt. Socks and shoes.” He had adjusted it over the years, of course, and used it calm himself while continuing whatever he needed to do; listing the steps over and over until it was all he could process. 

Jack tied the last knot on his sneaker and headed out of his bedroom. Shitty was waiting in the kitchen, pouring sriracha on a Hot Pocket.

“Breakfast of champions, dude,” he said triumphantly. “Eat up.”

“Euh, that’s okay. I’ll grab a protein shake when we come back.” Jack backed up like Shitty was holding a time bomb and opened the fridge to grab a water bottle. He was sure there was one left behind the piles of expired take out and smuggled chicken tenders from the caf. Water bottle retrieved, Jack turned around to see Shitty shoving the desecrated Hot Pocket in his mouth.

“You ready?” Shitty asked around a mouthful. 

“Yeah. Let’s go meet the frogs.”

The pair set off on the quick walk to Faber. Jack listened contentedly to Shitty mourning the loss of their manager Lardo who was off spending part of her sophomore year abroad. 

“I mean, like, I miss her commanding presence, y’know? I need a friend that can partake in my shitty habits and also keep me from fucking up. Like she’s so good at that,” Shitty lamented.

“Yeah, Shits. A friend,” Jack laughed.

“You motherfucker,” Shitty grunted as he shoved Jack’s shoulder. Jack only laughed harder. 

“Bro, you’re the one who fell in love with a freshman.”

“She’s a sophomore! And I’m not in love with her,” Shitty protested. “I just have a strong appreciation for her and everything her tiny little legs stand for.”

Jack shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Whatever, man. You gonna tell her when she comes back?”

“Why don’t you go French that tennis player, huh?”

Jack huffed and kicked a rock across the sidewalk. “Camilla and I aren’t really anything. She’s like a good friend I sometimes make out with.” 

Shitty looked at him sideways. 

“I’m not in looove with her,” Jack schmoozed. 

“Brah, shut up, I swear to fucking God!” Shitty reached over to punch Jack’s shoulder again, but Jack had already sprinted ahead and left Shitty behind cursing and laughing.

When they reached the lobby of Faber, Jack could hear the excited frogs before he even saw them. He remembered the excitement of the first official day on the day and all the nerves that came with it. Maybe he could connect to these frogs a little more than he had first thought. That eased some of his nerves.

“Oh, it’s just a cup and a half of flour, a pinch of salt, cold butter, ice water, and just one more little thing that I can’t tell you ‘cause it’s a family secret! A flaky pie crust is essential to the perfect pecan pie. Wow! Say that ten times fast!” A high, pealing laugh followed the loud voice. Jack turned the corner to face the group of frogs and stared openly at the blond boy with a ruined pie in his hands.

Some of the veterans were already gathered around him, in fact all of them except Jack and Shitty were. Seemingly drawn to the freshman by magnetic force. Jack could only see his back but he was shorter than all the other boys by at least a head, with shaggy blond hair and a pale checked button up. He was rather slight for a hockey player, Jack couldn’t help but think. 

At this point the other players caught sight of him and Shitty and began to call excitedly for them to meet Bittle.

“Jack, you gotta try this pie, brah! It’s like the most ‘swawesome thing I’ve ever had,” Rans exclaimed. He shoved a plastic spoon into the pie and scooped out a chunk. Bittle made a noise of protest, turning around to see who else was about to eat his pie like a felon.

Jack was hardly paying attention, and unthinkingly opened his mouth to ask Bittle had he been around on campus earlier; he looked familiar? And just as he took the breath to ask, Rans shoved the spoonful of pie into his mouth. 

Jack’s eyes widened in shock. He coughed until his eyes watered, and just about every hand in the room was thumping against his back trying to be helpful. Jack waved them off, feeling like he was choking even more. 

“Oh, lord!” A loud accented voice cried out. “Y’all give him some space! Oh my goodness, I am just so sorry, are you alright? Are you allergic to pecans?” The smaller blond boy—Bittle—had picked up Jack’s bottle of water and was trying to hand it to him, concern creasing lines into his tan, freckled face. 

“He’s allergic to having pecans shoved down his throat,” Shitty chirped. “Jesus, Rans, you almost killed him.”

Rans looked horribly remorseful, but when he opened his mouth all that came out was, “He spit the pie out. Holtzy, he wasted that beautiful bite of pie.” Holtzy looked equally remorseful. Jack eyed them down as he caught his breath.

“I’m fine,” he said hoarsely, still coughing a bit. 

“Are you sure?” That worried Southern accent came from Jack’s shoulder again.

Jack stared down at him. Warm brown eyes. Freckles dotted so lightly across his button nose, Jack had to squint to see them. Blond bangs framed his eyes making him look about 15. Bittle was so familiar that Jack knew he wouldn’t feel right until he figured it out. But for now, he had a hockey team to meet with what little dignity he had left.

“I’m okay. I’m Jack. It’s nice to meet you, and uh, thanks for the pie.”

Bittle beamed up at Jack like he had just given him a puppy for Christmas. “Nice to meet you too!” Jack’s stomach flopped awkwardly.

He turned to address the rest of the frogs, a flush high on his cheeks, and his plan for the speech shot to hell. “Welcome to Samwell, Frogs of 2016. I’m your junior captain, Jack Zimmermann.”


	2. Figure Skating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is so short, and I'm so sorry about that, but I just couldn't write anymore and it was killing me to make you guys wait any longer. Please forgive me!

“A figure skater?” Holster asked. “How did you get into hockey?”

Bitty chewed a bite of eggs slowly before answering. There was always the truth which roused murmurs of sympathy. He hated that. There was the sort-of truth which felt wrong to tell his new teammates; he had grown to love them so much in the short time he had known them. He wanted to be honest, and open, and authentic in a way he had never been before…but he didn’t want their pity. Maybe it was worth the risk.

“Well,” Bitty started, “I got injured at a competition.” He tensed for their reactions. 

Shitty nodded. “That’ll do it.”

Rans didn’t look satisfied. “How could you still skate?”

A little taken aback, Bitty had to reconfigure his answer. “Oh. Well, it was a pretty clean tibia break, but there was damage to my knee and I had to have surgery. Wasn’t so easy to land jumps anymore, and I couldn’t compete. But hockey was the next best thing and I ended up loving it,” Bitty smiled.

“Hey, we’re glad to have you, man,” Johnson insisted, to which all the boys heartily agreed. “Although I am sorry you had to get hurt in order to further the plot of this AU. That sucks major balls.”

“Johnson, what do you ever be talking about?” And with that the conversation was effectively moved from Bitty’s career ending injury to Johnson’s nonsensical rambling. Bitty laughed along with them.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught those strange wolf-eyes belonging to Jack Zimmermann. Jack was watching him intently over his bowl of granola yogurt, his face considering. Bitty could feel a flush rising to his cheeks. The captain had been paying special attention to him over the last two weeks, much to Bitty’s chagrin. Bitty foolishly thought it might be because Jack saw potential in him, but after his proven inability to take a check, Bitty just couldn’t figure it out.

“Were you any good at it?” 

Bitty startled. 

“What?” He asked.

Jack tried again. “I asked if you were any good at it. Figure skating. You move great on the ice, so I was wondering.”

Oh god, if Bitty was blushing before, he was having a heat stroke now.

“I made it Junior Worlds qualifier, but not much further,” he answered. “I have some medals.” 

There was something in Jack’s eye that sparked, but Bitty looked away. What was this boy’s problem, making him feel like this?

“That’s impressive,” Jack said softly.

“Thank you,” Bitty whispered. God was he fucked.


	3. Dicky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! Thank you so much for the words of encouragement and your patience as I got this chapter banged out. This will be the last chapter from Jack's perspective. In the next one, we'll switch to the two things that make Bitty suspicious about Jack and what it takes for him to finally realize. I hope you like it, because this was probably the hardest chapter to write! Please, please, please, check the notes at the end for content warnings. There's some angst...

“Goal-oriented” is what people called Jack Zimmermann when they were being exceptionally nice. Writing-a-letter-of-recommendation levels of nice. He was actually “obsessive” and “laser focused” and didn’t “know how to let something go, Jesus Christ.” It’s his greatest strength and his greatest weakness combined into one anxiety-inducing, self-pressured trait. And now it’s landed him volunteering to help Bittle at 4 in the morning with his fear of checking. Jack had felt a twinge of panic the instant Bittle showed hesitance taking a check on the ice. If he couldn’t handle a check then he couldn’t play; if he couldn’t play then the coaches wouldn’t keep him on the team; if he wasn’t on the team then Jack wouldn’t be able to see him every day; and if Jack couldn’t see him every day then how could he get to know him well enough to find out if he was the boy from the hospital! 

Shitty had had to sit with Jack in his room for the better part of an hour while Jack rambled and hyperventilated. 

“I’ll help him!” Jack had exclaimed after a while. Probably the first coherent thing he’d said in some time.

“Uh,” Shitty responded dumbly. “What?”

“I’ll help Bittle with checking and he’ll stay on the team! Shits, you’re the best, thank you,” Jack smiled and held Shitty tight by the shoulders.

“Brah, no, you’re the best! That’s so great you’re gonna help Bitty. Little brah could use the encouragement.”

So there they stood at 4:30 in the ungodly morning. Jack patiently and steadily slamming Bittle up against the boards. Bittle trying his best not to scream. He was better at that than taking checks. Some time around the tenth lap around the rink, Bittle dodged Jack’s oncoming check.

“Jack, please,” he panted. “I can’t do this.” Jack took in the young man before him—his head slumped down into his shoulders, panting like he’d run a marathon. He looked afraid. Jack stopped. 

“Hey,” he said softly, careful not to touch Bittle. “I’ve seen you skate sprints for 30 minutes without getting winded. What’s going on?”

“I don’t like getting hit,” Bittle answered, exasperated. “I’m not winded, I’m…” Bittle couldn’t finish his sentence as another bout of hyperventilation hit him hard. Jack saw the panic attack for what it was and rushed Bittle off the ice and onto the bench. He knelt in front of Bittle and put grounding hands on his quaking knees.

“Breathe in through your nose and out your mouth. Five counts in, seven counts out. I’ll count out loud.” Jack tried to sound as calm as he could—he knew it helped on the other side—but he couldn’t help the guilt pooling in his gut. He had done this to Bittle. 

Bittle was still shaking, his eyes watery, face red. The guilt intensified. Bittle grabbed Jack’s hand where they rested on his knees. Chin wobbling, he locked eyes with Jack and breathed in time with him. Somewhere in the back of his brain, Jack recognized this as the same determination he feared in himself. On Bittle…it was inspiring. 

They continued to hold each other’s eyes in the quiet moments after Bittle had calmed himself, staring so deeply Jack felt he could hide nothing. He wanted to tell Bittle his every thought, every fear, every hope for the future. He knew it must show in his eyes as clearly as a projection screen. _I’m here and I don’t know if it’s really you, but I’m starting to think that it might not matter_.

Bittle broke the silence. He must have felt the same energy Jack did, because when he spoke he said, “When I was fourteen, five older boys ganged up on me. The beat me up until I had bruises for weeks and a nasty black eye, and left me in a storage closet at the high school over night.”

Jack breathed sharply through his nose and closed his eyes. He absorbed the confession like he could take it inside himself and make Bittle forget it. Like he could wipe the fear and trauma from Bittle’s mind and add it to his already fucked up mess. But Jack said nothing, because he knew no words could make a difference.

“When you were checking me…” Bittle hesitated and drew in a shaky breath. He squeezed Jack’s hand where their fingers were still tangled. “I know you weren’t angry like they were. I do know that. But—I couldn’t make myself believe that. It felt like you wanted to hurt me.” Bittle’s voice faltered on the last few words.

And God did that pierce Jack through the chest. He had wanted so badly to just keep Bittle on the team for himself that he hadn’t even thought about Bittle. Of course there was a reason he was afraid of checking, Jack chastised himself. How stupid could he have been. 

“Bittle, I’m sorry,” he started earnestly. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Bittle looked like he was about to interrupt and reassure Jack, but he couldn’t let him do that. 

“No,” Jack said. “I wasn’t thinking. I was doing what would work for me, and I didn’t think about you. I am so sorry.”

“Oh, Jack,” Bittle whispered, the breath rushing out of him. “Thank you.”

Jack gave him a small smile and then stood. He groaned at his knees cracking and Bittle laughed. “How about we wrap up for the day, and try again from a different angle on Wednesday?”

Bittle stood too. “Sounds like a good plan, captain.”

—————————————

“Wait, you want Bittle on my line?”

Jack stood in the coaches’ office several weeks later, not quite understanding what was happening. 

“Yes,” said Coach Hall. “You’ve helped improve him so much, and from what we’ve seen in practice and how well you work together, we think putting him on your starting line is the best move.”

Oh. Well of course that was the natural progression. If the captain singled out a player for mentoring and extra practice, chances are that player would get better. Better players ended up on the starting line. With Jack.

“Do you have a problem with that?” asked Coach Murray. His tone indicated that Jack should not have a problem with that if he wanted to be captain again next year.

“No!” Jack was maybe too quick to seem casual. “No, I think he’s a great player. I just—that’s different. And I wasn’t expecting it so soon—,” or at all really, “—but I can work with him.”

“He makes you a better player,” Murray commented. Those six words lodged into Jack’s brain like flaming arrows. He hardly heard whatever else Murray and Hall had to say, and when their mouths were finished moving, he walked numbly out of the office.

 _He makes you a better player_. The sentence rattled around his skull, pried open the box he kept locked tight labelled You’re Not Good Enough On Your Own. If he was dependent on someone else to make him the best he could be, how was he supposed to succeed? People left, people failed, people _changed_. Jack was the only constant in his life. He was the only person he could depend on. His father’s name had gotten him far, and that alone ate at him in the dark. Who was he without the Zimmermann name? He was a rich party boy who needed someone else to make him better. He needed pills, and therapists, and coaches, and _Bittle_.

Hot anger washed over him like a tide, filled his veins with fire. _Inadequate_. He was angry at Bittle. _Unsatisfactory_. A freshman who came into his life and just acted like he belonged there. _Unworthy_. Who cared if he was the boy from the hospital if he was just going to replace Jack? _Waste_. Jack worked so hard to help him, and this was how he was thanked? _Dependent_.

Jack didn’t realize he had already made it back to the Haus until he wrenched the door open and slammed it behind him. 

“FUCK!” he screamed. If there was anyone home he didn’t care. Jack was frozen in the front hallway, ready to burst. 

“Jack, are you okay?”

That bright, familiar voice floated down into his foggy brain like a beacon. Jack turned to see Bittle in the doorway of the kitchen, a bowl of brownie mix in his arms, and a blue checked apron wrapped around him. His fair brows were drawn in concern. Jack didn’t even want to know how he looked to Bittle. Probably like a demon. Huffing and puffing, scarlet red. 

His tongue was ready to lash into Bittle. To cut him down and hurt him like he did to everyone else, but his brain wouldn’t make it work. He just stared at those brown eyes as his breathing slowed.

“Why don’t you come sit in the kitchen with me while I finish these brownies. I’ll let you lick the spoon as long as you don’t tell Ransom,” Bitty said conspiratorially. He put a hand on Jack’s arm and guided him to a chair. Bittle let go to lay out a Gatorade and a homemade peanut butter power bar in front of Jack.

Jack sat there for a moment longer, fists clenching and unclenching, heart jogging to a slower rhythm. When he looked up, Bittle was swirling something into the brownies and humming to himself. His hips swayed so gently to the music in his head, but Jack knew how strong he was. How hard he worked.

God, this was Bittle. None of this was his fault. He didn’t expect anything from Jack, he just gave, and took care of, and helped. And Jack had been so angry at him.

He blew out a long breath. Bittle really had worked harder than anyone else, and he wasn’t even expecting to be on the starting line. He just wanted to belong to the team. Jack was an ass.

“Do you ever get tired of being the best person on the planet?” Jack asked him.

Bitty laughed as he popped the brownies in the oven. “Well, Mr. Zimmermann, I wouldn’t say I’m the best person. You’re pretty cool, too.” He brought over the batter bowl with the spatula still inside and pushed it toward Jack. 

“You’re the hardest working person I know,” Jack said without looking at him.

“I’ll have you know I’m procrastibaking because I don’t want to write my history essay. So I can’t work that hard.”

Jack smiled down at the table. Bittle patted his hand. “I don’t know what’s brought this on, or if you even want to talk about it, but I’m gonna leave you alone with that bowl while I start my outline. I’ll be back down in 35 minutes.”

“Thanks.”

Bittle just smiled. His left incisor stuck out just the slightest bit from the rest of his teeth. Jack looked for it every time. And then he was gone and Jack was alone with evidence of Bittle’s care and attention. 

————————————

Bittle scored the winning goal. With his eyes closed. On parents’ weekend. 

Jack wasn’t going to deny that it stung just a bit. Who didn’t want their parent to see them score? Especially if one’s parent were Bad Bob Zimmermann. But mostly he was just proud of Bittle who had come so far and was finally tasting the fruit of his labor.

“Jack!” That bright voice reached him over the crowd of people. “Jack, over here!” Bittle was waving frantically as Jack caught sight of him. He laughed under his breath at Bittle’s post-game high.

“Papa, let me introduce you to my friend Bittle,” Jack said to his father. Bob was chatting happily with anyone who walked within ten feet of him, but he looked up with eagerness at this.

“Oh, friends! I like those,” he said, falling into step behind his son.

“ _Mon dieu, Papa_. Please don’t embarrass me,” Jack shook his head. 

“Oh, please. When have I ever embarrassed you?” Bob rolled his eyes. “This must be Eric Bittle! And his lovely sister, nice to meet you, I’m Bob Zimmermann.”

Jack groaned. Bittle’s mother looked like she was going to faint. “Oh! My goodness! No, no, I’m Dicky’s mother,” she said, nervously laughing her words. Bittle laughed and shook hands with Jack’s father after calling him “Mr. Jack’s Dad.”

The three of them chattered politely, but Jack stayed quiet. He felt suddenly uneasy as if the ground had shifted beneath him. 

“I was just trying to take a picture with Dicky before he left for the locker room,” Mrs. Bittle said. “Would you mind?”

Jack froze, and everything else became a fuzzy blur around him. Dicky. That was the boy from the hospital. The boy who had broken his leg figure skating at the Junior World qualifier. The boy who loved to bake. His name was Dicky and he was standing right in front of Jack. 

In the split second it took him to realize, Jack felt so complete he almost couldn’t breathe with the newness of it. He had hoped—God, he had hoped—but this was it. This was as good as a letter of confirmation from God himself. He had found Dicky. 

“Jack, you alright?” 

Jack startled. Bittle had changed before his eyes. His hair brighter, his eyes deeper, his freckles begging to be traced with a reverent finger. Jack could hardly keep it all inside himself. 

“I-I’m fine,” he said. “I’m great. Dicky.”

Bittle flushed. “Oh, hush! It’s just an old nickname. Richard’s my middle name and Mama’s always called me that, but don’t you dare tell anyone else.”

He doesn’t remember, Jack thought. He doesn’t remember me. But not even that could dampen his joy at the revelation. He doesn’t remember, _yet_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bitty experiences a panic attack and relives his high school bullying starting at "'Jack, please,'" and ending at "'When you were checking me...'". Jack has quite a few angry and destructive thoughts starting at "He makes you a better player" and ending at "Dependent." If you don't feel comfortable or safe reading those parts, please skip them! Everything should make logical sense without these chunks.
> 
> You can follow my check please blog on tumblr at were-all-a-team-together! We can scream together, it'll be great!


	4. Wikipedia Woes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! So we're moving on to how Bitty figures all this mess out, and we're starting with a google search that may have gotten him in a little trouble. Slight warning for overdose and hospitals, if those are triggers or phobias for any of you. Please enjoy, and as always, thank you so much for letting me know what you think!

“Apparently,” Eric told his camera, “asking a hockey player who Bob Zimmermann is is like asking a figure skater who Michelle Kwan is. Or a sitcom writer who Lucille Ball is.” He pondered for a moment. “Or any breathing human who Beyonce is,” his voice dripping with obviousness. “So after ten seconds of Googling I found a picture of Jack’s dad hoisting the Stanley Cup for the third time in 1978 with the Montreal Canadiens. And now I will put that picture up on the screen with clever editing, then edit this part of my narration out, and y’all will be none the wiser, my lovely viewers.”

Eric reached for his phone to double check that the Wikipedia article had indeed said 1978. He really didn’t want to start the monologue over again, but maybe he could say something wittier if he needed to. Viewers liked catchphrases and witty people, right? Probably. God knew Eric only had, like, two hundred subscribers and they weren’t there to hear about hockey legends. 

He scrolled through the rest of the page, noting that Jack had been born in ’91 as seen by his sudden presence in the Stanley Cup as a bug-eyed infant. Lord, but he was an ugly baby and Eric let himself laugh just a little. Jack was a certified hockey god now with an ass to match so he didn’t feel quite so bad laughing at him. 

Eric clicked the Personal Life header and flitted briefly through Bad Bob’s intimidating persona, the record number of teeth he had knocked out of people’s skulls, his successful marriage to a gorgeous model, and the birth of his only child—one Jack Zimmermann. Jack’s name popped up as a blue hyperlink. 

Well, duh, Eric thought. He was sure he would see that expression when he watched it on the camera footage later. Better turn that off. He’s, like, 24 so he had to have had some kind of time in junior leagues. Eric crossed his legs and dove into Jack’s page.

Impressive records in the juniors. Won a Memorial Cup. Nominated for the Bob Johnson award last year. More medals than Eric could count. Even set to be the first round draft pick in 2009, but that was where the list ended. Directly beneath it lie a header that read: Controversy and Overdose. 

Eric’s eyes widened. That didn’t seem quite right. Jack? The most focused and self-accountable person Eric had ever encountered having a capital-C Controversy? Eric couldn’t reconcile the two images in his mind. 

It couldn’t be that bad, Eric thought quickly. Sure he had only known Jack for a month or so, but he seemed so genuine. So in love with his sport and eager to share it with him. Eric was enamored. No, surely it wouldn’t be as bad as the internet made it seem. Eric worried his lip between his teeth and sent a darting glance behind his shoulder to his door. Was this invading Jack’s privacy? Was he going to feel his ears burning and come barging into Eric’s dorm demanding just what in the sam hill he thought he was doing? God, it felt so back-handed. _But_ , Eric reasoned, _if it really was some kind of drama he probably won’t want to talk about it. So I really shouldn’t ask him._

“Ughh,” Eric groaned loudly as he slammed his thumb down on the tab. And also while it loaded. And even while he read the first sentences. 

_Zimmermann was found unresponsive in a New York hotel room June 2009 during the few hours before the NHL draft in which he was expected to go first. It was later deemed a medical overdose by Mt. Sinai St. Joseph Hospital and many teams were unwilling to take the risk of drafting a rookie with an alleged addiction. While never explicitly stated that Zimmermann suffered from an addiction—or even what drug caused the overdose—many sources suspected the 18-year-old had been experimenting with illicit drugs with long-time friend and teammate Kenneth Parson (who would be drafted first in place of Zimmermann). Zimmermann spent the rest of June and August in a rehabilitation facility in Ottawa, Ontario. He later spent time coaching peewee leagues before deciding to attend Samwell College in Boston, Mass. in 2011 and is currently a starting forward for their division one hockey team. It is unclear whether Zimmermann will attempt a professional career again. _

Eric stared at the screen until it went black. 

A drug overdose. 

He felt fissures in his heart begin to grow and crack. _Unresponsive._ The weight of that image settled uncomfortably on Eric’s mind. Those sweet, blue eyes closed in artificial sleep. Pale skin pulled gaunt around his sharp cheek bones—sharp enough to cut. A breathing tube in his throat, an IV in his hand. 

Eric startled. 

The images were coming too easily. An onslaught in his mind. Eric had been in New York in 2009—in a hospital as well. Maybe that was why he could practically see Jack in front of him, still and cold and lifeless. Jack didn’t belong in that hospital room. He belonged on the ice. In the sun. With light in his eyes and joy in his smile. Eric clenched his phone in his hands, brought it to his forehead, and tried to shake the pictures from his mind. He promised himself quickly that he would not think about this moment ever again—or at least not until Jack wanted to open up to him about it.

—————————

Even though Eric promised this of himself, the mind wanders in dreams, and in Eric’s, he held the hand of a sleeping boy both too young and too cold to be Jack Zimmermann.


End file.
